


been a wreck-me week

by inlovewithnight



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Threesome - M/M/M, bros being bros, this terrible season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: The boys can tell Dylan needs to blow off some steam.
Relationships: Tyler Bertuzzi/Robby Fabbri/Dylan Larkin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 81





	been a wreck-me week

Dylan is used to bad games by now, and the practices that follow them. Everybody trying to act like this is inspiring them to do better, blah blah, gotta light a fire under the guys, whatever, someone please drive his car into Lake St. Clair with him still in it. 

Blash isn’t even doing inspirational speeches today, just telling them what the next drill is and letting them get to it. Dylan almost feels bad for the guy—he _wants_ to feel bad for the guy—but he can’t quite manage it today. Yeah, Blash is probably going to be sent packing at the end of the season. Tough for him, but then again, the rest of them have to _stay here_. 

That isn’t fair. This is his hometown team, he grew up cheering for the Winged Wheel, this is the only place he ever wanted to play—all of that is still true! And things have to turn around eventually, rebuilds are tough but they eventually end, the boys on the Griffins are going to be really solid when they get called up because the organization is taking the time to let them _really grow_ … yeah. All of that. True facts. 

He’s just really tired, that’s all. 

“Larks.” 

Dylan wipes the sweat off his face on a t-shirt and drops it into the bottom of his locker. “Yeah, dude?” 

Tyler is just sitting there looking at him. Not quite grinning—not much to grin about today—but his mouth’s open, showing that gap from his missing tooth. Dylan hopes he never fixes that thing. It makes his face less dumb and more charming. 

“What’s up, Bert?” Dylan prompts after a minute, when Tyler’s still just looking at him. “You need something? You better not have hit your head out there.” Honestly. If Tyler goes down, too, and they have to assemble a top line out of toothpicks and skate laces, Dylan is quitting the whole league and going to live in the woods up north, with the moose and shit. 

“Me and Fabs were thinking,” Tyler says finally, breaking off his stare at Dylan to glance over at Robby. And that _is_ a grin, now, like he and Robby are sharing a joke, which they probably are. They go all the way back, went to school together in whereverthefuck, Ontario. Not Toronto. He called it Toronto once and they were offended. 

“We should go do something,” Robby says, since Tyler apparently lost his train of thought again and isn’t going to finish that sentence. “The three of us. Blow off a little steam.” 

Dylan laughs and pulls a clean t-shirt over his head. “Oh no. I’m not blowing off any steam. I was _just_ in trouble for the whole all star game thing, I need to be good for a while.” 

“That wasn’t trouble,” Robby says, rolling his eyes. “And you’re always good, Larks. You’re, like. A boy scout.” 

“It’s gross, actually,” Tyler adds. “You’re so perfect it’s gross. I want to grab the mic in the next scrum and tell everybody you’re a perv and you kick kittens on the weekends, or something, just so everybody stops treating you like a saint.” 

Robby snickers. “St. Larkin of the Roses.” 

“Shut up.” Dylan takes his hoodie out of the locker and puts that on, too. “It’s not like either of you are running around getting in trouble on purpose. You know what it’s like, too.” 

They _all_ know what it’s like. The ones who weren’t around to have Zetterberg look at them with those dark, hooded eyes and give them a short lecture on _history_ and _tradition_ and _what it means to play here_ got basically the same speech from Yzerman, who, frankly, delivers it even better. Dylan got the talk from Howe and Lindsay both before they died. It’s a fucking weight on your back. It doesn’t feel that heavy when you’re winning, but this season… woof. 

“We’re not gonna go close down a bar or whatever, dude,” Tyler says patiently. “Just come over to my place and we’ll blow off steam in private.” 

Dylan has to blink a few times to process that. He looks from Tyler to Robby and back; they’re both grinning at him now, big wide grins. Shark grins. Wolf grins. 

Of _course_ that’s what they mean. 

“Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” He zips up his bag and slams the locker closed. “You stupid assholes.” 

Robby gasps and grabs Tyler’s arm. “St. Dylan is cursing at us, dude.” 

“We’re gonna get leprosy or something.” Tyler starts giggling and can’t stop. Dylan is going to push him out into the middle of traffic on Woodward one of these days. 

He walks out of the locker room and toward the stairwell that leads up to street level. He knows they’re right behind him; they don’t stop laughing all the way to the parking lot. 

** 

Blowing off steam at Tyler’s house starts with water, cause it’s important to stay hydrated. 

“Okay, _Jeff_ ,” Robby says, rolling his eyes, and it’s Dylan’s turn to not be able to stop laughing, because making fun of Coach is something they can only do behind closed doors, but once they’re there, making fun of Coach is something they desperately need to do. 

Tyler stands up straighter and shakes his hair out of his face, trying to drop his voice into Blashill’s deep register. Coach looks like an accountant and sounds like Barry White. It’s weird as hell. “Boys, you’re professionals and I know I don’t need to tell you this.” 

“But you’re gonna, aren’t you, Jeff?” Robby is leaning on the kitchen island, half bent-over, he’s giggling so hard. “You’re gonna tell us anyway, and we’re gonna act like we give a shit.” 

“Make sure you stay hydrated,” Tyler goes on, his voice sliding wildly up toward his normal high pitch and back to where he’s trying to keep it. “It’s a fundamental. You know how I feel about fundamentals, boys.” 

“You would fuck a fundamental if you could,” Dylan says, and they all crack up. It’s objectively not that funny, but they’re all so fucking tired, strung out on a shitty season and listening to Blash try to pretend this isn’t a full-on tank job. Bad jokes are what they have. 

“Shit.” Tyler picks up his glass and starts drinking, taking long slow swallows until it’s empty. Dylan and Robby do the same, and once they’ve all slammed them back down on the counter, Tyler goes over to the drawer by the stove and pulls out his stash. Old-school, hand-rolled, no vaping in _this_ establishment. Dylan’s mouth immediately wants to go dry. 

Robby rubs his hands together. “Open a window and let’s get to it, Tuzzi.” 

“You open the damn window.” Tyler carries the box over to the couch, and Dylan goes along to clear the coffee table. “Order some tacos, too. Make yourself useful.” 

“What am I, the maid?” Robby does it anyway, though, and Dylan sits cross-legged on the floor, waiting for Tyler to finish laying things out the way he wants them and light up already. His stuff, his rules, but Dylan really, really needs this break right now. 

He can’t even imagine that Z or Yzerman or even Lidstrom-the-perfect-human would begrudge them this. At least it’s not booze like the guys used to do. Dylan can’t imagine sweating off a hangover in practice. He’s too old for that shit, and he’s only 23. 

He lies back on the floor once Tyler hands one over, and Tyler and Robby settle in on the couch—maybe they kinda cuddle up on the couch, really, but Dylan doesn’t mind. He knows what their deal is, he gets it, he’s even a little jealous about it. 

Robby getting traded here made Tyler _so_ happy. It washed a lot of shit from this season off him, as soon as it happened. That’s not the part Dylan’s jealous about, though. It’s dumb, but he’s jealous about how they’ve known each other forever and they’ve got each other, like, whenever they need somebody, no matter what. He wishes he had somebody like that. 

He shakes his head and stretches his legs out, pushing the oncoming mopiness aside. No reason to get like that today. This is nice. He can let things be nice. 

“Hey, Larks.” 

He tips his head just enough that he can see them there on the couch. “Yeah?” 

Robby is smirking at him, and Tyler is grinning, like he’s got a really awesome joke and is just waiting for the right minute to put it out there. Dylan rolls his eyes at them. “What?” 

“You should come over here,” Robby says, his voice threatening to break into giggles at any moment. Tyler is already giggling. What is with these two? Why do they need a keeper or at least a grown-up around at all times? “On the couch.” 

“Why would I do that?” 

Tyler chimes in now. “Cause you need to relax, bro.” 

“I am relaxing. I’m relaxing right here on the floor.” It’s not as comfortable as the couch, true, but from the way they’re giggling they’re probably planning something if he does come over there, and he knows them well enough for that to make him suspicious. 

Robby rolls his eyes. “Larks. Larks. You’re so uptight. You’ve _gotta_ learn to chill.” 

“I’m chill! I’m just lying here!” At least the weed did its job. Instead of getting annoyed about this, it’s just stupid and funny. He can stay down here all day, and argue with them the whole time, and be fine about it. This isn’t like the all star thing. He doesn’t have to kick himself about saying something without thinking here. Nobody in this room is thinking, like, at all. 

“We gotta help him, Robby.” Tyler sits up straighter and runs his hands through his hair, tucking it back behind his ears. 

“I know we do.” Robby puts his joint down on the coffee table and shares a long look with Tyler. Dylan should probably stand up and start running, but that would take way more effort than he’s willing to put in right now. Let whatever happens, happen. Nothing is worth getting off this floor. 

“Okay,” Tyler says after a moment, like they were communicating with just their eyes that whole time. Maybe they were, fuck if Dylan knows. They’re weird. “You get his arms, I’ll get his legs.” 

Dylan has time to think _wait, what?_ but not quite time to say it before they’re gleefully pouncing off the couch and tackling him there on the floor where he can’t defend himself or evade them. He’s not really trying to, not seriously—he's rolling around a little bit, but he’s laughing the whole time, and so are they, like this is just the most awesome game they can think of. Pinning Dylan to the floor and then peeling him off it again, Tyler holding his legs and Robby holding his arms, just as planned. 

“What are you going to _do_ with me?” Dylan asks, dangling there limp, his ass a lead weight hanging down and threatening to drag his body out of both of their arms. “You idiots.” 

Tyler is giggling again, but Robby seems fairly sure of himself. “Over the couch, dude. Knees on the cushion there, yeah, so he’s looking over the back of it.” 

The back of Tyler’s couch is low, so Dylan is mostly bent over it, his line of vision basically directed toward the join of the wall and the floor. Tyler needs to get a cleaning service in to vacuum more often. Or at least sweep. “Now what, geniuses?” 

“We told you, Larks.” Robby pets the back of Dylan’s head, then messes with the hair there, like he’s trying to fluff it up or something. Dylan tries to squirm under him, but Robby’s free hand is heavy between his shoulder blades, holding him in place. “We’re gonna help you relax.” 

Dylan gives another experimental wiggle, giving up on this one when Tyler’s hands settle on his butt and give him a couple of friendly pats. “You guys could at least buy me dinner first, you know.” 

“We are!” Tyler almost sounds genuinely offended. “The tacos are on their way, right, Fabs?” 

“Yeah, they’ll be here in a little while.” Robby hangs over the back of the couch, too, tugging at Dylan’s hair until Dylan turns to look at him. “Aw, c’mon, Larks, smile a little.” 

Dylan obediently smiles, showing as many teeth as he can. “How’s that?” 

“That’s good.” Robby nods, face going serious for a moment, then closes the gap between them and presses his mouth to Dylan’s. Dylan gives in, of course—he knows that it’s good to kiss Robby, even though Robby hasn’t been on the team all that long yet, because Tyler has told literally everybody how good it is to kiss Robby, including the very straight guys who don’t care. 

And Tyler was right, it _is_ good. Robby’s mouth is very soft and he’s polite about it, letting Dylan warm up and melt into the kissing instead of just ramming his tongue down Dylan’s throat first thing. It doesn’t take too long before Dylan’s sucking on Robby’s tongue and making happy little noises, which he always does when the kissing’s good, even though it’s kind of embarrassing and guys give him shit about it. 

Robby doesn’t give him a hard time, though, and neither does Tyler, who reminds Dylan that he’s standing behind him with his hands on his ass by giving it another little double pat. “You guys are so cute,” Tyler says, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Dylan’s sweatpants and tugging them down to his mid-thighs. “See if you can make him squeak, Fabs.” 

“I don’t squeak,” Dylan protests, but Fabs has sat up a little, now, and is fumbling around with Dylan’s hoodie. Dylan thinks he’s probably trying to get his hands under both the hoodie and his t-shirt, to find bare skin, but at the moment he’s lost in between them and not accomplishing much at all. “You want me to help you with that? I can just take it off, you know.” 

“Yeah!” Robby sits up the rest of the way, his mouth spit-shiny and his face flushed. Looking at him makes Dylan’s stomach tighten up a little, and twist in a good way. Robby’s _into_ him. That’s nice to know. 

He un-bends himself so he’s just kneeling upright on the couch, and pulls his hoodie and t-shirt off over his head in one go. Tyler makes an appreciative noise and moves his hands from Dylan’s ass to his sides, still with palms-flat, just to touch, not to tickle. “Get it, Larks.” 

Robby doesn’t say anything, just curves his hand around the back of Dylan’s neck and pushes him down over the back of the couch again. Not really what Dylan expected, and he thinks about protesting, but then Robby’s hand is skimming over his stomach and up to his chest, feeling around for whichever of his nipples it can get to first. 

Again, Robby lets him warm up to it—just a little rubbing first, the flat of his thumb over the sensitive skin until it perks up, then a gentle little tweak before he turns his attention to the other one. Dylan tries to turn toward him, offer up his whole chest, but Robby makes a tsking noise and nudges him back to where he was. “Don’t move around, dude,” he says, and bites at the knob of Dylan’s shoulder a little. “We’ve got a plan here.” 

“What kind of a plan?” It’s a little late to start being suspicious, probably, but the point’s moot, because just as he asks Tyler’s hands catch in the waistband of his boxers and pull them down, too, leaving him all exposed on the couch. 

“Oh my god,” Dylan says wearily. “Really?” 

“Unless you have an objection.” Tyler pinches him on the ass, good and hard. “Or a better idea.” 

Dylan thinks about it for a minute, and Tyler waits, his hands rubbing lightly over Dylan’s ass. Robby is still nibbling at Dylan’s shoulder and playing with his nipples, which is distracting but also good enough that Dylan realizes no, he doesn’t have any better ideas than this, or objections. He’s been outsmarted by Bert and Fabs. 

“Okay,” he says, and settles himself more comfortably on his knees, bracing his forearms on the back of the couch and finding a way to rest his head that doesn’t risk crunching his nose if Tyler moves wrong. “Go for it.” 

Tyler never needs to be told twice. He palms Dylan’s cheeks again, jiggling them a little, then spreads him open. He barely gives Dylan any time to brace himself before he’s _licking_ , which—Dylan should have remembered from the other times this has happened. Once Tyler’s given the go-ahead, he never waits for anything, just takes off at top speed. 

Robby hasn’t stopped, either; he’s still pinching and tweaking at Dylan’s nipples and mouthing at his skin, all the way up to his neck now and behind his ear where he’s extra-sensitive. Between the two of them they’ve got Dylan squirming on his knees, fingers scrambling at the back of the couch. He’s making embarrassing noises, too, high-pitched little whines, and he’s pretty sure that if he could see himself, his face would be as red as the logo. He can’t think clearly enough to really _be_ embarrassed, though, and Tyler and Robby definitely don’t care. They’re both doing their best to fucking eat him alive. 

“Goddamn it,” Dylan pants against the couch. “Tyler. What are you _doing_?” 

He regrets saying anything immediately, because Tyler has to pull back to answer, and that leaves him feeling cold and desperate. “Just relax,” Tyler says, his voice rough, and Dylan tries to imagine what he must look like right now, if Dylan turned around. Flushed, definitely, bright red the way he always gets when he’s working hard and into what he’s doing. Sweaty. All hazy-eyed and his mouth wet with spit and grinning his big stupid grin. 

Robby pulls away from Dylan’s neck, where he probably was leaving a hell of a hickey, which Dylan probably should have asked him not to do. Too late now. Dylan _can_ see Robby, if he turns his head just a little bit. Flushed, sweaty, hazy—Robby's checking all the boxes. And he looks _hungry_ , too, like chewing on Dylan the way he has so far just isn’t enough anymore. 

He reaches down between Dylan and the couch and wraps his hand around Dylan’s dick, giving it a squeeze that makes Dylan gasp and arch his back. “Careful, Robby, jesus.” 

Robby kisses him, rough and sloppy this time, like it’s at least half to keep Dylan quiet. Dylan closes his eyes and gives in, trying to let everything his body’s feeling cut him off from having to think. Tyler’s got one thumb in Dylan’s ass now, working him open with it along with his tongue, and it’s like there’s a wire running through Dylan’s body from there, to his dick in Robby’s hand, to his tongue tangled up with Robby’s, humming with electricity, lighting him up. 

“Hey,” Tyler says, and Dylan hopes he’s talking to Robby, because Dylan himself is definitely not available for conversation right now. “Hey, dude, can we like... turn him?” 

Robby breaks off the kiss and pants hot and wet in Dylan’s face. Tyler’s dripping spit on his back, too, and they're all sweating enough to make this count as a second workout for the day. 

“Which way?” Robby asks. 

“Like... so he’s facing down the couch. On his hands and knees? So you can fuck his mouth while I fuck him here.” 

Dylan drops his chin, letting his face smush against the couch cushion, and whines. Oh, god. They’re going to... 

Robby ruffles Dylan’s hair, his broad hand easily spanning the top of his head. “Was that a yes, Larks?” Dylan nods, not opening his eyes or lifting his head, just pushing into Robby’s touch. “Yeah, I thought so. Good boy. C’mere, let’s turn you around.” 

With Tyler’s arms around Dylan’s hips and Robby supporting his torso, they swing him ninety degrees right, waiting til Dylan gets himself settled on hands and knees before they go back to work on him. Tyler’s still opening him up with his mouth and fingers, and Robby tongue-fucks him a little longer while jerking himself hard. That means nobody’s touching Dylan’s dick, and that sucks, but he can hold out as long as Robby gives him something soon. 

He should’ve realized that these two would think it’s funny to coordinate. Robby _does_ give him something—his fat dick, right in the mouth—but it’s at the same time that Tyler pushes into him from behind, and if Dylan had a live wire running through him before, now it’s fully arcing and shorting out his brain. 

He moans around Robby, letting him thrust in deep, until he ends up gagging around him. Robby pulls back, cause he’s a beauty, and pushes Dylan’s sweaty curls off his forehead. “Look good like this, Larks,” he croons, pushing in not quite as deep this time and holding still, letting Dylan’s drool collect in his mouth. “C’mon, you can suck me better than that, I know you can.” 

Dylan _can_ , and he’s going to, but he just needs, like, a minute. A breath. Because Tyler is already thrusting into him hard, and Dylan knows him, when he gets as deep as he can, he’s gonna just grind and hump for a while, until Dylan _shakes_. He needs to brace himself for that, a little, and then he can suck Robby’s brains out through his dick. If everyone can just be a little goddamn patient... 

Robby’s fingers curl in Dylan’s hair and he tugs, grunting in frustration. “C’mon, c’mon.” 

Fine. Dylan shifts on the couch, bracing himself better on his knees, and turns his attention to Robby’s dick, letting his mouth slide over it loose and sloppy. Spit everywhere, his mouth starting to taste salty-sour, Tyler hammering into him in a steady rhythm, sweat stinging his eyes, and his dick heavy and desperate, kicking at his stomach whenever Tyler gets a really good thrust in. It’s a lot, it’s right on the line of too much, and if he has to tap out he knows they’ll be chill about it in the moment but they’ll also _never let him fucking forget about it_ , in general. 

Plus Dylan just hates being a quitter. He doesn’t quit on the ice and he’s not going to here. He’s can do this. Just like on the ice, disconnect the brain from the body, let muscle memory and instinct do the work. Narrow the world down to what his body is doing, the feel of breath coming in and out of his lungs, the shake in his arms and thighs and how to correct for it. 

Robby comes first; curses out loud and comes in Dylan’s mouth like a rocket, choking him a little as he pulls out. Robby grabs him by the hair again, pulling his head up so they can kiss again and Robby can tongue-fuck his come in Dylan’s mouth. Dylan twists his face away after a moment so he can take a gulp of air, spitting half of the mess out on the couch just so he can breathe. 

“Fuck,” Tyler groans, his hands tightening on Dylan’s hips. “Don’t fucking—get a towel or something, Fabs, fuck.” 

Robby doesn’t. He slumps down and lets his head fall back, his one hand still haphazardly petting Dylan’s hair while Dylan lets his forehead drop to rest on Robby’s thigh. Tyler’s still plowing away at him, though he’s getting a little erratic now and must be getting close. Dylan can take it. He found his zen or whatever, he’s floating, he can breathe now. He’s drooling spit and jizz on Robby’s thigh but if Robby doesn’t care, he doesn’t either. 

Tyler’s hips stutter and he thrusts two—three—more times, burying himself so deep that Dylan grunts and curls in on himself a little. God, Tyler has always got to be so fucking _much_ , all the time. 

He slumps over Dylan for a minute after he comes, leaving a haphazard kiss between Dylan’s shoulder blades and a streak of sweat all the way down Dylan’s back. “Fuck,” he says again, this time more of a declaration. “You’re so hot, Larks. We should do this more.” 

Dylan mumbles against Robby’s thigh, not bothering to look up. Sure, do this more. He’ll never be able to walk again. That’s fine. He didn’t get off, either, but he’s so far out in space that he doesn’t care. He’ll ask Tyler for a blowjob later, after he’s had a nap. 

Tyler wanders off, then comes back with some towels, which he drops on Dylan’s head. He and Robby clean themselves up a little, and the couch, before dabbing ineffectually at Dylan and finally just laying a towel over him like a blanket. That’s fine with Dylan. He can just doze here for a while, and when he gets too cold or if being sticky gets too annoying, he’ll make them help him get up. 

Tyler and Robby don’t seem to mind, either; they tuck a pillow under Dylan’s head, bring more water over to the couch, and settle in with the remote, arguing about what they want to watch in whispers. 

The last thing Dylan hears before he dozes off is Tyler’s sudden, offended, “Hey, wait, the tacos never showed up!"

**Author's Note:**

> Trivia I learned while working on this: the Wings' practice rink is 40 feet underneath the arena at Little Caesar's. Underground shenanigans.


End file.
